Aiko Yamamoto woke to the gentle hush of dawn filtering through her paper screen. For a moment, she lay still, listening to the distant caw of crows and the soft creak of the old house settling into another day. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of pine and the promise of spring. She sat up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes, and reached for her notebook on the tatami mat beside her futon. Even before her feet touched the floor, she was sketching lines and swirls inspired by the ancient pottery she’d seen so often in books and museums, and sometimes, if lucky, in the earth itself.

  Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with the clatter of chopsticks and the low murmur of her family’s voices. Aiko padded in quietly, notebook clutched to her chest. Her mother glanced up from the stove, her brow furrowing in gentle concern.

  “You’re up early again,” she said, sliding a steaming bowl of miso soup across the table.

  Aiko smiled, slipping into her usual spot beside her grandmother. “I want to visit the site before school. The light’s best just after sunrise.”

  Her father, already dressed for work, shook his head with a half-smile. “Most girls your age are interested in music or fashion, not old dirt and broken pots.”

  Aiko ducked her head, cheeks warming. “They’re not just pots, Dad. They’re stories. Pieces of who we were.”

  Baachan, her grandmother, reached over and patted her hand with fingers gnarled by age and years of tending the family’s small garden. “Let the girl chase the past. The land remembers, even if we forget.” Her voice was soft, but there was a spark in her dark eyes, a spark Aiko had always cherished.

  Her mother set down a dish of pickled vegetables and sighed. “Just be careful, Aiko. The woods are still muddy from the thaw, and you know how your shoes get.”

  Aiko grinned, slurping her soup. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stick to the path.”

  As the conversation drifted to the day’s chores and her father’s commute, Aiko's gaze wandered to the window. Beyond the glass, the mountains rose blue and silent, their peaks dusted with the last stubborn traces of snow. Somewhere out there, beneath layers of earth and memory, secrets waited for someone willing to listen.

  Baachan leaned closer, lowering her voice so only Aiko could hear. “If you find something, bring it home. The old stories say the land gives gifts to those who respect it.”

  Aiko nodded solemnly, her heart quickening. She finished her breakfast in a hurry, bowed to her parents, and slipped her notebook into her backpack. As she stepped out into the morning chill, the world felt wide and full of possibility. The earth was waking, and so was she.

  Before the sun had fully risen, Aiko slipped quietly out the front door, careful not to wake her family. The morning air was cool and fresh, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Her breath formed small clouds as she pedaled her bicycle down the winding path toward the Kakinoshima Jomon Site, the place Baachan had told her about, the place where the land whispered its oldest secrets.

  The village was still asleep, the streets empty except for the occasional crow calling from the treetops. Aiko’s heart beat faster with each turn of the pedals, anticipation mingling with the crisp morning chill. When she arrived, the site was bathed in soft golden light, the earthworks glowing gently beneath the awakening sky. She parked her bike beside a cluster of ancient stones and stepped onto the soft soil, careful not to disturb the fragile ground. The silence was profound, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant song of a bird. Aiko knelt beside a moss-covered mound, her fingers tracing the patterns etched into a shard of pottery half-buried in the dirt. The coolness of the clay sent a thrill through her fingertips, as if the past itself were reaching out.

  For a moment, she closed her eyes and listened-not to the sounds of the present, but to something deeper, something older. A faint vibration hummed beneath her palm, subtle yet insistent, like the heartbeat of the earth. She pulled back, startled, blinking against the sudden rush of light that seemed to shimmer just beneath the surface. Shaking off the unease, Aiko tucked the shard carefully into her jacket pocket. She cast one last glance at the ancient site, a silent promise forming in her mind: to uncover its secrets, no matter what.

  With the fragment safely hidden, she mounted her bike and headed toward school, the village now stirring to life around her. The familiar streets felt different somehow-as if the world had shifted just slightly, and she was already stepping into something new. By the time she reached the school gates, the courtyard buzzed with the energy of students greeting the day. Aiko locked her bike and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the hours ahead.

  Inside the classroom, the laughter and chatter of her classmates filled the air. She slid into her seat near the window, pulling out her notebook and opening it to a fresh page. As the teacher began the lesson, Aiko’s thoughts drifted back to the morning’s discovery, the shard, the strange vibration, and the whisper of the earth beneath her fingers.

  The final bell had barely finished ringing when Aiko slipped out of her seat and hurried down the hall, notebook clutched to her chest. The teasing and whispers of the day faded behind her as she made her way to the bike racks, her mind already far from the school’s polished floors and fluorescent lights. She mounted her bicycle and pedaled away from the crowds, following the narrow road that wound toward the edge of town and into the embrace of the forest.

  The ride to the Kakinoshima Jomon Site was short, but it always felt like a journey between worlds. The houses grew sparser, replaced by groves of cedar and pine. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of moss and old leaves. By the time Aiko reached the familiar clearing, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the earthworks and ancient mounds. She leaned her bike against a weathered sign, its faded lettering marking the boundary of the protected site, and stepped onto the soft, uneven ground. The silence here was different from the hush of early morning: deeper, almost reverent, as if the land itself was holding its breath.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Aiko walked slowly, her eyes searching for the spot her grandmother had described in so many bedtime stories; a place where the earth rose in a gentle curve, crowned with wildflowers and ringed by stones. She found it just beyond a cluster of young birch trees, half-hidden by tall grass. Kneeling, she brushed aside a tangle of roots and leaves, her fingers moving with a practiced gentleness. The soil was damp and cool beneath her touch. She let her hand linger, feeling for something-she didn’t know what. A memory, perhaps, or a secret. Her fingers closed around a small, rough object. She drew it out: a fragment of pottery, its surface etched with spirals and lines that seemed to dance in the fading light.

  Aiko turned the shard over in her palm, tracing the patterns with her thumb. As she did, a faint vibration thrummed through her hand, subtle but unmistakable. She stilled, breath caught, heart pounding. For a moment, it felt as if the world had narrowed to this single point-her, the earth, and the ancient fragment between them. A whisper seemed to rise from the soil, so soft she almost mistook it for the wind. She closed her eyes, listening. The sensation faded, leaving only the cool weight of the pottery in her hand and the distant call of a bird overhead.

  She opened her eyes and glanced around, suddenly aware of how alone she was. The shadows had lengthened, and the forest seemed to press closer. She slipped the shard into her pocket, her fingers trembling just a little. Standing, Aiko dusted off her knees and took a steadying breath. She looked back at the mound, feeling a strange mixture of excitement and unease. Whatever she had felt-whatever had called to her-she knew she couldn’t ignore it.

  As she walked back to her bike, the last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, painting the site in gold and amber. She paused at the edge of the clearing, glancing back one last time. The earth was quiet now, but Aiko felt certain: something had changed. She pedaled home in silence, the fragment pressing warm against her leg, and the memory of the whisper echoing in her mind.

  The sky was deepening to indigo as Aiko guided her bicycle along the winding road back toward home. The evening air was crisp and carried the scent of woodsmoke from distant hearths. She rode slower than usual, her mind replaying the strange sensation she’d felt at the Jomon site, the vibration in her palm, the whisper that seemed to rise from the earth itself. She pressed her hand to her jacket pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of the pottery shard she’d found. It was cool now, but she could not shake the memory of that fleeting warmth.

  As she passed the edge of the forest, a shiver ran down her spine. The trees stood tall and silent, their shadows stretching across the road. For a moment, she felt as if she were being watched. She glanced over her shoulder, but saw only the empty path and the swaying branches. Still, the sensation lingered, a prickling at the back of her neck, a hush in the air that was more than just the coming night.

  She quickened her pace, the tires of her bicycle crunching over gravel. The houses of her village soon came into view, their windows glowing softly in the dusk. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and turned onto her street, the familiar sights and sounds of home easing her tension.

  Unbeknownst to Aiko, a figure lingered at the edge of the trees where she had just passed. Dressed in a dark coat and cap, the watcher blended easily with the lengthening shadows. He raised a small black device to his lips and spoke in a low, measured tone.

  “She has it. The vessel has been disturbed,” he said, his words nearly swallowed by the rustle of leaves. “Yes. She’s just a girl. No, she doesn’t seem to know. I’ll continue to observe.” He pocketed the device and melted back into the forest, leaving no trace but the faintest impression in the moss.

  Aiko arrived home as the first stars began to prick the sky. She wheeled her bike into the shed and hurried inside, the warmth and light of the house a welcome contrast to the chill outside. Her mother called her for dinner, and Aiko did her best to act normal, though her thoughts kept drifting back to the site, the shard, and the strange feeling of being watched.

  Later, as she prepared for bed, she pulled the pottery fragment from her pocket and studied it by lamplight. The spiral carvings seemed almost to shimmer in the golden glow. She traced them with her fingertip, half expecting another tremor, another whisper. But the shard remained silent, its secrets locked away for now. Still, as she set it gently on her desk and climbed beneath her covers, Aiko could not shake the sense that something had awakened, that the world she thought she knew was only the surface, and beneath it, old powers and older secrets were stirring. Outside, the wind rattled the eaves. In the darkness beyond the village, the watcher waited, patient as stone.

  Night settled quietly over the Yamamoto house. The hush of the countryside wrapped itself around the old wooden walls, broken only by the distant bark of a dog and the soft ticking of the kitchen clock. Aiko sat cross-legged at her desk, the pottery shard resting on a folded handkerchief beneath the lamplight. She turned it over and over, tracing the ancient spirals, searching for meaning in their curves.

  She thought of Baachan’s words that morning. The land gives gifts to those who respect it, and she wondered if this was what her grandmother had meant. The fragment felt heavier now, as if it carried not just the weight of clay but the burden of memory. Yawning, Aiko tucked the shard safely into her desk drawer and slipped beneath her futon. The moonlight filtered through the shoji screen, painting pale patterns on the tatami mat. She closed her eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking her curiosity.

  Sleep came quickly, but it was not the gentle drift of ordinary dreams. Instead, Aiko found herself standing in a vast forest, the trees towering above her, their trunks thick and ancient. Firelight flickered in the distance, casting long shadows that danced across the mossy ground. She walked toward it, her footsteps silent, drawn by a low, melodic chanting.

  Around the fire, figures knelt in a circle, their faces hidden by the flicker of flame and the shadows of feathered headdresses. At their center stood a woman-tall and regal, her hair woven with shells and beads. She held a stone vessel etched with the same spirals as Aiko’s shard. The woman’s eyes found Aiko’s, dark and deep as the night sky, and she raised her hand in a gesture both warning and welcome.

  The chanting grew louder, words Aiko could not understand but felt in her bones. The earth beneath her feet trembled, and a wave of warmth surged up her legs, through her body, until her fingertips tingled with energy. She reached out, desperate to touch the vessel, to ask the woman what it all meant. As her hand brushed the rim of the ancient jar, the dream fractured. The firelight faded, the chanting dissolved into wind, and Aiko tumbled through darkness.

  She woke with a start, heart pounding, the first pale light of dawn seeping into her room. For a moment, the dream clung to her like mist, its images vivid, its meaning elusive. She sat up, glancing at the desk where the pottery shard lay hidden. The house was silent, the world outside still sleeping. Aiko pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the echo of the earth’s tremor in her bones. She didn’t know what the dream meant, or why the shard seemed to call to her, but she knew one thing for certain: Something had changed. And whatever secrets the land held, they were now a part of her story.